Sunday afternoon Laura and I set off for a concert at a church a few towns to the east. We’d not heard of the performer, a young cellist named Romina Constantinescu. The drive took us along the coast, miles of two-lane blacktop, nary a car but ours, pine forests to one side, the sea to the other. “Shall I turn on the radio?” Laura asked.

“It’s so peaceful here,” I replied. “And who knows whether we’d get any reception.”

“I did hear something good on the way home from town this morning,” Laura said. “Something with an oboe. Today’s the composer’s birthday. Do you know who it is?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“Guess.”

Without really thinking I said, “Franz Joseph Haydn.”

“That’s right!” Laura exclaimed. “You knew!”

“I didn’t,” I said. “It was just a guess. I don’t know where I got it. Maybe I was reading your mind.”

“It was a beautiful piece,” Laura said.

We enjoyed the rest of the drive in quiet, and about thirty minutes later we parked at the old church.

For the first half of the recital, the cellist played two Beethoven cello sonatas, accompanied on piano, according to the program, by her partner, Victor Constantinescu.

“They were really good,” I said to Laura at the intermission.

“And she was very pretty,” Laura said.

“She was.”

“And I bet you liked that she wasn’t wearing underwear.”

“I did.”

“Pussy lips like little curtains,” Laura whispered in my ear.

“Not really to my taste,” I said.

“Oh no?”

“You’d think they’d play something by Haydn, since it’s his birthday and all,” I said.

“Changing the subject, are you?” Laura said.

The second half of the concert, Romina played Bach, some suites for unaccompanied cello. Again I was very impressed.

“What do you suppose Victor was doing?” Laura asked as we made our way to the car.

“I have no idea.”

“Guess. You were so good guessing Haydn’s birthday.”

“Eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” I said.

“What flavor jelly?” Laura said.

“Can I have multiple choice?”

“Strawberry, peach, or contraceptive.”

“You’re silly,” I said, squinting into the setting sun. “I’d better concentrate on the road.”

Laura fished her phone out of her bag and took a number of pictures of the scenery.

“Peach,” I said, after she put her phone away.

“I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “You know these things.”

“I told you it was just a guess. Or I read your mind.”

“Can you read my mind right now?” she asked.

“Ah, not really.”

“Want a multiple choice?”

“Okay.”

“Car crash. Speeding ticket. Or blowjob.”

“I choose blowjob.”

“Good choice,” Laura said, deftly unzipping me.

We sped along, no cops, no crash.

“You tasted good,” Laura said as we reached home. “Want a peanut butter sandwich for dinner? Ask the Google Nest to play some cello music. Maybe something by Haydn while I brush my teeth.”

A moment later I had Nest doing Haydn’s Cello Concerto No. 1 in C with Mstislav Rostropovich playing cello.

“Nice,” Laura said, returning to the living room. “But not as pretty as your Romina, I bet.”

I laughed. “But guess what,” I said.

“Peach?” Laura said.

“No. I checked with Google. Today is not Haydn’s birthday. It’s Handel’s. Georg Fredrich Handel. What do you have to say to that?”

Laura frowned. “I’d say you owe me a blowjob.”

“I do,” I agreed, and I guided her to a nearby chair and arranged her legs over my shoulders. “Your demure little pussy lips are definitely to my taste,” I said, my tongue soon proving the declaration by performing glissandi and arpeggios galore upon her clit and within her cunt.